Cw: infidelity, reader is verging on OC here, very light physical description (wears glasses, is shorter than soap)
Regency!AU where you’ve just entered an arranged marriage with John MacTavish, and you’ve already heard whispers from servants and nobles alike about the girls he’s entertaining on the side. You sigh, disappointed but not surprised.
He’s never shown any interest in you. Not during your debut, not in any courting season, and certainly not now that you’re married. Quiet, studious, with no interest in socializing beyond a small circle. If anything, you’ve only ever been an obstacle to him— your desire for quiet and to study the flowers has robbed many a late night garden tryst of its privacy at social galas.
Not to mention your spectacles. He’s never understood some men’s taste for those.
But your family was of no small renown (distantly related to the royal family, some gossiped), and his had connections overseas. The match made sense. Well, to anyone but the people who had met you both.
He’ll admit you’ve piqued his curiosity when you invite him to speak with you privately. You couldn’t mean to confront him regarding his dalliances, could you? Because it wouldn’t do you any good. He needs some kind of stimulation in this dull, countryside manor.
You smile at the maid as she departs, having just set down the silver tea tray and chatted with you for a spell while you awaited your lord husband— late as usual. He’s always found it strange how you keep such a closer rapport with servants of all people.
You stand to greet him as he enters the garden, smiling like you don’t have a care in the world. Sweetly. You tuck a strand of hair back into place. That is, right before you slap him across the face. Hard.
And the poor man, he’s reeling— feels as if the wind has been knocked out of him. Since when could you hit harder than some of his mates? That train of thought ends when you grab him by the lapels and yank him downward to eye level. The fury he sees cannot be overstated.
“You think I care that my man-whore of a husband wants to wet his cock? I don’t. But should you wish to keep your manhood, you’ll do so in private,” you grit out, teeth bared at him. “I’ll not be humiliated by you. I’ll not be the subject of pitying gossip. Do not provoke me. Am I clear?”
He nods hastily once he re-learns how to move his head. You let go, but not without a slight shove that he sheepishly struggles to recover from. “Good. Now leave me be.”
You proceed to arrange your skirt suitably and sit at the garden table, picking up a cup to sip from, opening a journal and perusing it as if he isn’t even there.
Johnny leaves the garden quietly, retreating to your (scarcely) shared chambers to catch his breath.
And for a week or two, no words reach your ears about his liaisons. It’s a blissful time, but your satisfaction doesn’t last for long.
Because your husband has suddenly become nauseatingly affectionate. Scarcely leaving your side when he has his way, prompting you to sneak him improper kisses, holding your hand so he can kiss his way up your wrist in a most unbecoming way.
More than once, you hear of his former paramours. Humiliated, snubbed by him seemingly out of nowhere when you’d only told him not stick his hands up their skirts in plain view of others. Now he seemingly only has eyes for you, calling you bonnie and darlin and all other manner of sickening pet names. He’s even taken to playfully plucking the spectacles from your face— sometimes to clean them when they fog up from a hot drink, other times to hold them behind his back for ransom while he demands a kiss in exchange for their safe return.
My god, and the vile things he whispers to you when you find yourselves alone. Begging you to let him lift your skirts, to see that cute little cunt and give it a good licking, telling you about how he stroked himself in the bath last night thinking about you, how you should join him tonight—
Worst of all, he’s asking all manner of inane questions. Namely, which room you want to become the nursery.
steve harrington x reader — stranger things x bridgerton au
request – Duke Steve getting irritated with Lady Whistledown for making his intended sound desirable to the other lords looking for a successful match.
Dearest Gentle Reader,
As the Queen prepares to select her Diamond of the Season at this week’s Evening Ball at Irving Hall, I am starkly reminded of the competitive nature with which young ladies push themselves for a chance to take home the esteemed title. This season holds many a rare beauty — it is anyone's guess to whom the Queen may choose. Between the charming Miss Christina Cunningham, the handsome Miss Tamara Thompson, and many notable names, our options are plentiful.
However, this author urges your eye to the unsuspecting wallflower making her debut after many years in the shadows of her elder brothers. Any eligible bachelor seeking an accomplished match should look no farther than the northside of Mayfair…
The men were seated together in the Harringtons’ reception room as Eddie read the pamphlet aloud. Steve continued to pace the length of the room while Jonathan attempted to talk him down, “Forgive me, but what is the issue with Lady Whistledown boosting the credibility of this lady?”
Steve huffed, head shaking as he moved to look out the window and across the street to your home. A line of suitors had already settled themselves in a line, waiting to be received. The Duke could hardly keep his composure intact, “There is no issue. Why should I take issue with this ghost writer who has suddenly set every other bachelor in London, if not the entirety of Britain, upon the lady whom I set my gaze upon.”
“Perhaps if you’d just asked her for a dance at the last ball, rather than vaguely staring at her from across the room, your competition wouldn’t have turned so fierce,” Eddie chuckled as he tossed another berry into his mouth.
“And perhaps, Edward, if Lady Whistledown were not so content with seeing me unhappy, none of this would be an issue,” Steve shook his head, jaw tight while he observed your coachmen escorting the line of bachelors into your home.
“You cannot believe Lady Whistledown to despise you, Steve. Don’t be dramatic,” Jonathan hummed, adjusting to sit straighter in his chair, “Besides, if you were to make your intentions known, I’m sure the lady would be agreeable in joining you for a promenade.”
“Well, obviously I thought about that, sir,” Steve scoffed, pausing as his eyes raked over Jonathan’s lounging position, “But that does me no good in—”
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” His valet entered the room, prepared to announce a guest.
Steve rolled his eyes, his youthful carelessness showing. He had no interest in guests while dealing with such a crisis, “Send them away, Thomas. We are not accepting guests at the present.”
“Sir, I believe you shall want to receive this guest,” Thomas gave his lord a pointed look to come look into the hallway.
While Eddie and Jon glanced between the Duke and his valet, Steve took a breath. His brow furrowed as he walked with a swiftness towards the foyer. As he descended the stairs, he captured a hint of a woman’s silhouette before a gentle giggle wafted through the halls.
Steve paused when you came into view, lingering in the entryway. His brown eyes widened, focused on each detail of you and how utterly perfect you looked, outlined by the proscenium of the hall. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards as he noted you welcoming one of the new maids, your bright disposition filling the room. He cleared his throat to make his presence known, “My dear?”
You paused your conversation, offering the Duke a polite smile and a curtsy as he approached, “Your Grace.”
Summary: It had been four years since you left the kingdom of Gotham and joined the League of Assassins. Tonight, you have a mission that sends you right back into the heart of the castle during a Masquerade ball. It all goes to plan until you run into the one person who will know you with his eyes closed. (pt.1 of the prophecy of the stars)
Pairing: Prince!Tim Drake x Assassin Fem!Reader
Word Count: 11.5k
Content Warning: Regency AU, Forbidden love trope, Angst I fear (clap if you're surprised), YEARNER TIM, minor character death, for the purpose of this fic all the bat boys are Bruce’s bio sons, mentions of blood and sword violence, no use of y/n, second person, some characters may be ooc, open-ended bittersweet ending (see note at the end)
A/N: She's finally here!!!!! I put my whole soul into this omg i really hope you guys enjoy.
•───────•°•♕•°•───────•
The mossy green mask pulling at your hair should have been the first sign that this assignment was doomed.
For what you imagined was the millionth time that night, you adjusted the silk of the mask on the crown of your head. Each time the knot had been retied, it carried some strands of your styled hair entangling them in the silky ribbons of the mask. Unfortunately, the tangled locks didn’t make themselves known until you returned to scoping out the ballroom and the white-hot pinch from your scalp pricked again. After the fourth adjustment, you begrudgingly accepted defeat as the tugging became part of the costume.
The celebration was bubbling and bright. Lords and Ladies from all over came to pay their respects to the blessed couple. Warm lights from the candles were rested on chandeliers hanging low from the arched roof, casting an amber hue over the boisterous room. The clinking of glasses poured with wine and shuffle of dancing footsteps filled the walls of the castle. Stuffy dresses with too many layers of fabric packed the room, leaving minimal to no space in navigating the busy hall.
There was a haunting familiarity that lingered in your stomach during your observation. You couldn’t help but remember the version of yourself that sprinted through the stone floor of the castle in the depths of the night. And if you listened hard enough, you could hear your giggles smothered by the back of the palm of a boy you no longer knew.
While mingling with the other guests, you came to the conclusion that politics was far more boring than you had previously believed. There were more riddles spoken of wars and treaties, than of strategy and efficiency. Too many thin-lipped smiles guarding plans that betrayed gentlemen no more than three feet away. It was a miracle, truly, that these kingdoms were still standing. Taking over the continent would be a cake walk in the name of the Al Ghul’s when the plan began taking motion. Over the course of your painful pleasantries, it became increasingly obvious that men in power do not take women in the same positions as seriously, even if she was ten times more dangerous than they could ever dream of amounting to.
With a deep sigh, you let it go. Domesticating the lords of the land was not your assignment for the evening. There were grander matters entrusted to you after all.
The mission was inherently simple,
Kidnap the youngest prince.
The execution, however, was not.
Planning begun seven moons ago when the announcement of the ball reached the ears of The Great One.
You heard the news, like many others, in town while attending the Sunday morning market. The odor of earth was clear in the air with your heels digging into the dirt. The trees hung low, casting a shadow on the path as the leaves rustled above you. Cracks of sunlight bled through the branches, casting a spotlight on the critters that walked with you. A line of ants, a family of cricket, and a roly-poly danced between your steps.
The distant hum of chaos that came from the Sunday market carried through the otherwise peaceful air. You passed multiple groups who had finished their shopping; families with children holding a new toy, elders with baskets packed with ingredients for their early evening dinner, and nobles with tiny pouches holding their overpriced souvenirs. Each gave you a brief nod and a hesitant curve of their lips while strolling past.
You shouldn’t have been surprised really; this land was feared, not lusted after. The people were not known for their manners, but for their skill.
When the town square came into view, countless stands created a maze of vegetation, trinkets, and small overpriced luxuries. The chatter of animals was aggressive through the whole square while they fought their enclosures. Voices were bargaining over each other at every stand, attempting to make a living for themselves. Never being one to bite back an expression, you couldn’t quite conceal the way your eyes widened when you heard the prices vendors were calling out.
The sun was high in the sky, almost as if she was making a point to demonstrate what this darling planet revolved around. Expelling a heat that rivaled the Inferno you read about in a Divine Comedy during your years at school. You silently thanked the gods for deciding to wear a lighter skirt today as sweat lined your forehead. Despite the weather, there was a kind breeze whistling in your ears carrying the chirps of the birds that flew above. Your pale flats slapping on the cobblestone path ignoring each vendor, while swatting away the beads of sweat threatening your hairline. Your entourage of beasties had seemingly abandoned you to the joys of the market- or more likely, some shade.
When you finally make it to your desired stand, you began examining the different crops on display. In the process of examining the potatoes, Gina strikes up a conversation. You had been coming to this stand every week for the past four years. Gina had watched you gradually be broken down into the rawest form a human could take during your training and then be built back up into something like a soldier. It wasn’t quite as honorable as that, but you did it in the name of your country. It wasn’t for loyalty, but for a debt you would never finish repaying.
While her voice carried with whatever town news was hot at the moment you remembered that the only thing that spread faster than sickness these days, was gossip.
Your tone was light and polite, in hopes of getting a better bargain if she thought you kind today, when she breached the news of the upcoming ball. The eldest prince of the Wayne family had been promised to the youngest Tamaran princess. Taken aback at the news, you stared incredulously at the vendor in front of you as she nodded in confirmation. The news of the engagement is not what came to a shock to you, but rather who. There had been rumors in your youth of the prince being involved with the Grand General’s daughter, Barbara. During your time in their kingdom, you had the luxury of studying at the palace with some of the noble children, and she had been your tutor. On more than one occasion the eldest prince had interrupted your lessons with a mischievous smile and a rose. The flirtation was obvious, even to the children that she taught, but a fleeting romance must have been all the kindness the universe granted them.
Your heart sunk for her, truly it did. Empathy was not a skill that was praised under the Demon’s head, yet no amount of training would make you forget the heartbreak that molded you into this dark twisted being. And for that, you feel for her. You would not wish that amount of anguish on your worst enemy. That level of destruction on one’s soul, that cruel twist of fate, is something so savage, it could warp the minds of the kindest spirits.
In the aftermath of your departure from the kingdom of Gotham, you made a valiant effort in avoiding any breath of information regarding the royal family. Your evasion of knowledge to the Wayne’s came as bewilderment to some of the townsfolk, it was no secret that you were previously involved in their court. Some thought it to be in spite, some believed you above gossip. But in truth, there was a paralyzing fear in hearing the name of one particular prince announced in a betrothment. Some may call it juvenile, but in this sense, ignorance was bliss.
Upon processing the news, you picked three potatoes and tossed them in the wicker basket that laid in the crook of your arm. Handing Gina the three silver coins from your pouch, you departed with your best attempt at a smile. The smile was awkward at best, but she would never comment on it. Over the past four years, she saw the sad excuse of a girl doing anything she could to survive in this broken system. For that she would take extraneous amounts of pity on her. So, with a smile as warm as the sun, she patted your shoulder and sent you on your way.
The original plan was to spend two more hours in the market evaluating other crops and indulging yourself at the stands with foreign gems. Yet with the reveal of the news, you had to return to the castle. You needed to report to the great one.
It happened four years ago.
A few weeks after your eighteenth birthday.
There had been political tension between the neighboring nations for generations. Supposedly the rocky relationship had been resolved when you reached age nine, and the Gotham King had married your Queen.
You were born under the Al Ghul rule. Your father a soldier, and your mother a loyal servant, those were the only reasons you were allowed the luxury of living in the castle- both of them. When the Queen had left your home to go live in the neighboring kingdom, your father was assigned to her royal guard, and your mother her ladies’ maid. Having no other family, the Demon’s Head allowed you to go with them.
While he had an inhumane reputation of ruthlessness, he did not pride himself in being a man who separated families- at least not yours.
Your years in the castle were kind. Studying in dimly lit classrooms along the nobles- where you learned your hatred for alchemy and love for literature; working with your mother alongside the Queen, whether that meant sewing a dress, or helping with taking care of the heir to both nations.
But your favorite part, were the endless nights spent in the fields behind the castle.
Lost in another world as the tall grass grazed your ankle and the dirt pillowed under your hair. It was the closest thing you would get to heaven on earth. The first few years you spent them alone, with the occasional visit of fireflies that came to escape reality with you. Then as the constellations shifted and you grew, so did your company. On nights that used to be reserved for quiet dreams and shallow breaths, were suddenly about a boy who became your religion.
Only under the cold blanket of a full moon where you shared stolen kisses and hidden smiles, did you learn the tragedy of star-crossed lovers.
Neither of you properly courted the other, knowing deep down it was a luxury neither of you would be able to pay the price for. So, you would treasure those nights where his hand was intertwined with yours and the warmth of his palm melted every doubt in your chest. Then as his eyes met yours, you both watched the love born under an ill-fated star become dedicated to something frighteningly fragile. The stillness of every evening consumed you both in a drunken state, where you allowed yourselves this small sliver of peace. Where the world didn’t have to exist with royal expectations and duties needing to be followed. A field where loyalty didn’t mean family ties, but a girl and a boy became fluent in each other.
The grand romance, like every great literary author indulged in, came to a world-crumbling end. Even so, the memories of the plays and books you studied didn’t make the tragedy easier to swallow. Because in this world, you were no Capulet, and he was no Montague. You were simply a girl unlucky enough to fall for a prince and foolishly believe that life is kind to lovers.
You knew that even if you were lucky enough to reach old age and inevitably suffer from memory loss, you’d never be blessed enough to forget the night the world taught you how cruel it could be.
•───────•°•♕•°•───────•
It was a night like any other, the skirt you had donned on that morning brushed upon your calves, billowing with the midnight breeze. You were standing in the field waiting for your fateful prince when the escapade commenced. It read like a scene out of a novel; a bright light appeared behind you and only grew with the mere seconds it took for you to turn. When your neck snaps around, the orange flames growing from the glass windows of the castle lit up the sky. Screams echoed into the field- orders to soldiers, and yelps of fear.
You were frozen staring at the scene playing out in front of you, when they catch your eye.
The League.
There were too many of them, their movements too familiar, too practiced, to be any other threat in Gotham. You could recognize those movements with your eyes closed. Every morning of your childhood when you stared out the shared window, you saw them training, preparing, and killing.
You didn’t know it then, but the rescue mission had been planned for months. The Queen had grown unruly with the King. He did not agree with the ways of her father, the plans he had for combining the nations. The control he wanted to exert.
It was no secret that the Queen was not in charge of your birth state, she was a Queen for the sake of having a title, but her father- The Great One, The Demon’s Head, he who went by the name of Ra’s Al Ghul, was the true ruler of your kingdom.
Eventually, your legs carried you in the direction of the castle. To do what? You weren’t sure, still you needed to be there. Your feet stumbled over themselves eventually making it to the outskirts of the field where dirt bled into stone when you heard it.
The explosion.
Your forearm flew to your face as rubble ricocheted off your clothes. Ears ringing and sparks flying, you fall to earth.
The previously dark night now had embers decorating the sky like some twisted star, and screams carried by the wind. The stone brick lining the walls of the castle no longer carried that solid worn look, while it began crumbling under the weight of the explosion.
There’s a cluster of footsteps quickly approaching, and you hear the unsheathing of a sword before you see it.
The assassins.
You turn, throwing your hands in the air in a poor attempt to portray innocence. The words begging for your life died in your throat, strangled gasps are all that fills the air in front of you. Your voice breaking as you choked on any plea you could think of. The sword deaf to your fear, raises in preparation for a swing when your eyes squeeze shut.
The cold steel makes contact with your neck, a clean cut before a “Wait!” rings in your ears.
Before it can slice further, the sword pauses at the slice in your neck, the warm droplets of blood creating a curvy stream down your collarbone into your bodice. The arm froze at the first syllable and slowly, you open your left eye before the right one follows. Blinking a few times till you can digest the picture in front of you.
The Queen is dressed in a plain black dress with a hooded cape disguising her features. At the sudden appearance, you forget your current predicament and move into a curtsey with a hiss. The blade slices into the side of your neck further and blood begins to drip down faster.
“My darling,” you hear from above you and she extends her hand to help you up from the curtsey. “There is no need for formalities at this moment.”
The sword falls away when you look up at her and the realization begins to settle into your bones. She’s escaping, she’s running from the kingdom. There are few with her and you realize behind her, one of the assassins is standing a few feet away impossibly straight while carrying the young prince over his shoulder.
Prince Damian was unconscious, lost to a world with less horrors than the one you were currently living in. You pitied him. He would wake up in a new home that you knew by heart as an heir to an empire he wouldn’t want.
Now standing at your full height the Queen looks behind her for a moment, the ruins of the castle closing a chapter you never thought would end, and grips onto your hand tighter. “Let us go child, we have little time to spare.”
The blood pouring down your collarbone and the sting rippling through your neck is what kept you from mistaking this as some far-fetched nightmare. She left little room for hesitancy, she was your Queen after all, you had to follow her orders. For a terrifyingly long moment, you just stood there with her fingers gripping your wrist to pull you along with their escape. With a timid nod of agreement from you, she let go and you joined the group through the field. Yet for one moment, you allowed yourself to glance back at the wake. Something breaks in you at the sight of remnants of the explosion, the ruin of the castle, and the heart you left in the field. You knew at that second as it all bled onto the grass there was something lost here that you would never get back.
You find out the next week that your parents never made it out.
Your father was caught in the crossfire, and your mother in the explosion- or that’s what you were told at the very least.
Often times on nights when the bed was too cold, and the sky was too lonely you began to wonder. What would have happened had you stayed behind that night? What would have happened if your prince was in the field? Would you have stayed? Or would you have gone regardless?
Either way, you were an assassin now. You were a member of the league, a highly ranked one at that.
Talia saw something in you that night, something you hadn’t seen in yourself. You were an orphan at eighteen. You had no money, no family, nothing to your name, just an education with no experience. It was unfortunate to be born a woman in some times. Had you been a man, the world would’ve bent to your will, allowing you opportunities to make something of yourself, however, you were not gifted such a luxury. Still, the Queen took you in. She trained you as her own, having no daughters herself, she gave you the honor of being something similar to it.
This would not have been your first choice for line of work, but it was all you had. Beggars can’t be choosers, and at least this way you could make something of yourself. You wouldn’t be loved or adored, but you would be feared. And that was far more important. Because this way, no one could weaponize the heart you would never admit was fragile.
There were days when the League was a blessing, and some when it was a curse. You couldn’t stand to look at blood when you were younger and now? Your hands were stained with countless lives you would never forget. Yet one thing remained, whether it was whispers of souls you’d taken that haunted you or the secret group you trained with, you would never be alone again.
•───────•°•♕•°•───────•
This mission had been assigned by Ra’s Al Ghul himself. Few were allowed in his circle, and even fewer were entrusted to missions directly from him. There were only six of you with knowledge of the mission, if there was even a whisper of an attempt on the youngest prince, war would finally break out between the neighboring nations.
After Talia began shaping you into a weapon of her own creation, he began taking notice. Slowly, over the past four years you began rising in the ranks and became something worth paying attention to.
Damian ran away a little over a year ago in the dead of the night.
You were on your way back from the kitchen with a glass of warm ginger tea. The spoon in your left hand mindlessly stirring the honey when you hear a woosh of air across the small expanse of the frigid hallway. It was rare to hear even a pin drop in the castle, as every being taking residency here had mastered the art of silence.
Your feet are rooted to the floor at the sound. It meant one of two things: an ambush, or someone in a rush. Pausing in the hallway you listen for fifteen seconds, then thirty, then after a minute you hear the slip up. The quiet stutter of a breath of someone trying to mold into the walls.
“I have a cup of tea in my hands that I’d prefer to drink while it’s warm,” you begin as the warmth of the cup seeps into your fingers, contrasting the cold tile underneath your toes. “So, I’m going to give you one chance to reveal yourself before you ruin my night.”
Your eyes are scanning the hallway lit up by the pale cast of the moonlight through the arched window. After a moment of your words being swallowed by the void of the night, you let out a tired sigh and go to place your cup down when there’s a shuffle of footsteps. Lifting your gaze to the intruder, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline and your eyes widen.
Damain Wayne was standing in front of you in plain black trousers and a matching tunic. He had a small bag over his shoulder with some belongings and a hood over his head. The image in front of you caused all the warmth in your fingers to cool instantly. Suddenly, images flash your mind of a night not so different from this one, memories of a life you left behind. A shiver ran down your spine, and you straightened instantly at the realization.
“You’re leaving.”
“You cannot stop me.” He says with a tone of finality. Though if you allowed yourself to decipher it, you’d hear the hint of nerves that are climbing his throat in fear of being caught.
“I won’t try to.” It was a miracle truly that you had not shattered the porcelain cup, your fingers gripping onto it for dear life. If anyone were to ever find out you inadvertently aided in his escape, they’d maim you.
You were now regretting making your routinely run to the kitchen for tea.
Both of you simply remained holding each other’s stares in the depth of the darkness. The turmoil of his responsibilities seemed to finally break him. You couldn’t blame him, not really. Having to be torn between the duties and loyalty of the nation between your mother and father was not an easy burden to bear. There was a fracture in your heart as you really looked at him. Once upon a time in a castle similar to this one, you helped raise this boy and the world did not treat him with an ounce of kindness that you attempted to spare for him.
“They will come for you.” The warning was useless; he was as aware of the fact as you were.
“I know.”
In that moment when you saw the stone-cold look in his eye and the flex of his jaw, it reminded you of another life you once shared. A life over the borders where you were hopelessly in love with his brother. He probably doesn’t remember or even know it, but the Wayne who held your heart in his palm used to flex his jaw in the same determined way when he made his mind up about something.
Your breath stuttered with the memory of the boy you loved and his brother that stood in front of you. Nostalgia is a parasite, it ate you alive from the inside out till you knew nothing, but what could’ve been. Maybe it was guilt for abandoning your prince or possibly hope that life would finally be kind to him, but you let him go. Hoping that the little boy you once knew could become something for himself, and not a projection of what the world wants him to be. You suppose that’s why you didn’t attempt to stop him.
It was quiet for a beat before you lowered your head and curtseyed, “Good luck my prince.”
And before you could stand up to your full height again, he had disappeared in the night. You could only pray now that you would not be caught for your hand in this.
The next morning was chaos when you awoke in the castle. He had left a note for his mother, that he had gone to his father’s kingdom. You had the misfortune of being at Talia’s side when she broke the news to her father. There wasn’t screaming, it wasn’t an act of war, it was worse. It was a silence that seemed to drain the life out of every soul in the room. It was a meticulous level of planning that had somehow managed to slip from right under his nose.
The rage was something close to biblical. He interrogated every single guard that had been stationed that night. He knew the paths and rounds they would make by heart. Sweat began to bead down your neck in anticipation until they remembered your tea runs. It was two days later when they approached you.
You were in the throne room with them and some other guard when she remembered. The Queen’s head snapped to you and asked you so simply if you saw anything on your run of midnight pleasures, that it took you off guard. After recovering from the shock of the question, you answered with a quick “No, my Queen.”
She accepted the answer.
No one ever saw the sigh of relief that rippled through your insides when they believed you, they couldn’t. Because who would even begin to speculate that the Queen’s right hand would allow her son to escape?
Since then, they had begun planning and conspiring to bring the young Prince back to his rightful land. You had been involved in nearly all the previous plans they had tried to execute. They trusted you, you never failed them before, and you knew the Wayne castle better than any of the other League members. You had always been loyal to the cause, to them.
This was your country; your place of birth, and Gotham had swallowed your parents with no apology. They believed there was a pit of wrath that pooled in your stomach that fueled you for revenge against the kingdom. You never agreed with them, but you never denied it either. It was easier to let them believe that. It’s why they trusted you with this mission.
Loyalty was one of the most important qualities to have in this environment. The second being conformity. To be able to bend in any way they ask you to, to go against all your morals and complete the mission no matter the cost.
And you never failed them.
That’s how you find yourself here in the middle of a gala with a mission to bring back their heir. They would never know that you had no intention of returning with him. They would never know that you came in order to warn him. You were loyal to the Al Ghul’s, but you had not been so broken down that you had become a stranger to empathy.
There was not a world where this would make him happy, and you refused to play a hand in the game that would convince Damian Wayne that this life was nothing but pain.
So, with the alias of Cassandra Sandsmark, an Amazonian ambassador, you glide through the ballroom of the gala in an attempt to find him. This ambassador you had taken the role of was traveling here to negotiate the terms of an alliance with the royal family, in what you imagined was to aid in preparations with the war against the Al Ghul’s.
Her ship was taken over by the time it hit the docks.
It was then that the severity of the mission began settling in your bones. In battling the Amazons and taking them captive, you knew you could not afford to be caught. You succeeded in everything they asked of you, you were the model Assassin to them. Never questioning them, never disobeying an order. There was no room for failure now.
Only two other assassins joined you on the mission, two other girls that had been recruited after you joined. You often wondered how they ended up here, how they got to join the league. No one ever spoke much in the group, your team was silent, very few of the assassins knew of its existence. You wished you had gotten closer to them on occasions like this where it was silent and you knew nothing beside their first name.
They accompanied you as Amazonian guards for the ambassador. Each lingering on opposite walls of the ball watching carefully for a slip up. They were unaware of your mission, however. They were here on the assignment that was given to them the night before. While you had been involved with the planning stages from the first night, they were only made aware mere hours before dawn.
Glancing around in an attempt to get this night over with as quickly as possible, you’re interrupted by someone clearing their throat a few steps to your left.
“Pardon me miss but, do you happen to have a dance card?”
Your neck twisted with the same cautiously practiced smile you had been wearing all night at the sound of the voice. The smile lines etched on your face smoothed out and the words died in your throat when familiar blue eyes met yours, all color draining from your face.
Despite the masks every guest had tied around their face, you knew exactly who the man standing in front of you was.
Before departing in the early hours of the morning that seemed eons ago, the guest list of the ball had been brought to you. Talia had asked you to familiarize yourself with it in an attempt to master the role you were going to be playing this evening.
It was impossible to ignore the lurch your heart gave when you read the name of the only boy you ever loved.
Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne
His name was written in Talia’s neat cursive that cut through you cleaner than any weak defense had caused you in the field before. Deep down you knew that he would be in attendance long before the guest list had made its way to your hands, but the confirmation hit you like an anvil to the chest. The ball was being held in celebration for his brother’s engagement. It was logical- expected for Tim to be in attendance, but you still couldn’t swallow it.
Part of you was tempted to pass on the mission to someone else and abandon the silly idea that you could save the prince. To give it to someone who wouldn’t freeze at the nostalgia sparked by a name.
In reality, it would have been the safe option. There was a large possibility that he would know you if your eyes so much as met from across the room, the mission would be damned if he saw you. You’d be charged with treason, and the conspiracy of your appearance would be enough for the looming battle to finally break out. However, there was a forgotten little girl that lived in your memories who was desperate to see him one more time so, you steeled past his name and accepted the risk.
Now with the boy in front of you, unaware of the years of your life you’re reliving in between your ears, you freeze. Just looking into the icy blue eyes that still had the grey specks in them, caused your heart to drop so deep in your stomach you didn’t think it was physically possible.
His eyes are still searching yours when you remember he’s waiting for an answer. Barreling through your emotions, you drop into a deep curtsey staring at his shoes. This was only going to work if you avoided eye contact.
“Apologies my prince,” you begin with a calculated smile. “I am afraid I do not have a dance card this evening.”
“Ah what a shame, I was hoping to show you some of our famous Gotham hospitality.”
Thankfully, the mask was able to hide the surprise in your expression. He had gotten far bolder than you ever remembered him being. You were half convinced that this was not the boy who used to blush in the moonlight when you stared at him for too long.
“Well, you are far more aware than I am, that I am not here to scope out Gotham’s hospitality.”
“Yes,” a deep sigh. “I suppose you are not.” You could have brushed off the comment on him remembering you’re supposed to be an ambassador, but the tone in which the words leave his mouth leave you questioning the meaning. Your heart drops for a moment in fear that he might have discovered you.
“What was it like?” He gives you a quizzical look which allows you to specify. “Growing up in Gotham?” The question was pathetic and completely derailed the original conversation, but you were desperate.
“Oh um-” His head recoils slightly, being caught off guard. It’s in that moment you realized how much you truly longed for him. How much you had yearned for the stolen moments where you bathed in the moonlight together. How much you missed the sound of his voice.
“It was nice,” he begins carefully. “It was lonely at times, but I am aware that I am blessed more than most.”
“Lonely? With so many brothers I find it difficult to believe that you struggled with loneliness.”
He laughs at your statement, and you forgot how much you loved the sound. The way his eyes crinkle slightly, and the dimple he has on his right cheek. It was scary how much of him you still had memorized- how much of him you still knew despite all the years you’d missed him.
“Yeah they are around… a lot more than I’d prefer, but it’s a different type of loneliness.” His words are slowly cutting deeper into you. “They’re my family, they have to be there. Most of my friends don’t live near, and we don’t see each other often. And some… I don’t really see anymore.”
That last part severed the last threads that were holding you together. You knew what he was referencing but you had to school your face, he couldn’t see the way your face fell, he’d know you instantly. And he always hated pity.
“But what about you Ambassador? What was it like growing up in Themyscira?”
Your blood turned to ice at the question, and you were sure he could tell. It was your luck that when it was necessary, the expanse of knowledge you had about other kingdoms from your studies, dissipated. The way his head cocked to the side with a hint of a smirk from the upcurve of his lips made it feel like a tease. As if this was some twisted test, and not an innocent question.
“Well-” you began with a hesitant smile, and the gods answered your prayers.
Some lord walked a little to close, and your satin glove caught onto one of the chains of his suit. Your hand was yanked back with him as he continued walking for a step before he paused feeling restraint.
The lord turns around and bumps into you slightly, unprepared for the proximity. He stabilizes you with his hands on your elbows. His eyes are what you see first, wide and green with an apology lingering in them. He was taller than most of the men here and had ink black hair that was carefully combed into place. He was also devastatingly handsome.
When you finally are able to stand up right without the gentleman’s support he lets go and attempts to unhook your glove from where it got caught.
“My apologies madam,” He’s anxiously rushing out the apology, and it’s almost sweet how nervous he is. “I did not intend to run into you, the hall has gotten a bit tight and I was trying to avoid bumping into someone else.”
“You are quite alright sir, an apology is unnecessary. It was an accident.”
“You are too kind,” he looks like he’s about to start sweating when he looks up at you from his chest. His hands are fumbling while they carefully attempt to not rip the stitching of your sage glove.
“Here, allow me to assist.” You offer with a careful close-lipped smile.
His arms drop to his side instantly, awkwardly opening and closing his fists while you successfully unhook the glove first try.
“I apologize again, truly, I meant no harm. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Lord Rayner- Kyle Rayner.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Lord Rayner, I am Ambassador Sandsmark,” You drop into a small curtsey, the alias slipping easily from your tongue. “Cassandra Sandsmark.”
“The pleasure is all mine Cassandra.” He answers with an easy smile. “If it possible, I’d like to share a dance with you this evening, if I can be granted the luxury?”
“The ambassador does not have a dance card.” A familiar voice cuts in from behind you.
With the nature of his remark, you expected him to be staring daggers into Kyle’s eyes, but they’re not. His eyes look as if they’re trying to burn a hole into your wrist, the ungloved one.
“Ah well,” poor Kyle flushes to the color of an apple. He seems to sense something that you haven’t picked up on and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I am needed elsewhere at the moment. I hope to speak with you again before you depart for the evening Ambassador.”
He doesn’t wait to hear your reply before he bows slightly and high tails away from you and the prince. In that brief second, you forget yourself when Kyle scurries away and whip around to look at Tim. You’re prepared to let some nasty words loose on him when he beats you to speaking.
“Where did you get that bracelet?” His eyes are still caught on your wrist. Confused at what could be so intriguing to him about the silver chain, you answer him honestly.
“It was a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday.”
He doesn’t say anything, the only indication he heard you was the hum he let out. The crease in between his eyebrows makes a second appearance for the night, and you anxiously slip the glove back on.
“Ambassador Sandsmark,” Grateful for the intervention of whatever was going on, you turn your neck slightly and see one of your assassins, Dahlia. She curtseys in the presence of Tim and then announces, “I apologize for the interruption, I’m afraid I will need to steal you away.”
“Please, no apology is necessary.” Tim decides as his left palm rests above his heart before he bows slightly. “I do wish you enjoy the rest of the gala, and I hope to see you before you depart, Cassandra.”
“Likewise, my prince.” You give him a short bow of the head before walking off as fast as you can manage without being suspicious. Heart hammering against your ribs, attempting to digest the fact that he may have discovered you.
Dahlia whispers your name again and it wakes you from your distraught. “Yes?”
“The heir,” she reminds you. “He has retired to his quarters for the evening according to some chatter I overheard. Eva has already gone to the women’s room to change out of her dress.”
The mission begins to swarm your mind again. You had allowed yourself to get so distracted by Tim, you forgot that you were going to have to pull off the biggest juke of all time.
“Understood.” You whisper to her with a nod. To any onlooker it may have merely appeared that you were discussing the terms of a possible treaty or gossip, when in reality you were sweating bullets, trying to pull off your heist. “Be certain Eva has the horses ready at the edge of the field. And remember, if it hits ten past eleven, you leave. Do not,under any circumstance wait for me.” You look directly into her eyes as seriously as you can. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good, if I am discovered it is best that they only find me. If they learn of you or Eva, then we will be the catalysts for the war, and our heads will be mounted on stakes as a reminder.”
You watch her swallow heavily. Dahlia, a weapon as much as any of you, was still new. She hadn’t quite developed the numbness to this line of work that the rest of you had. Her skill was impressive, but she hadn’t been completely broken down yet. A small part of you wanted to save her from it, from the horrors of being accustomed to taking a life- of being able to sleep at night after you’ve watched the life drain from someone’s eyes. It’s why you often chose her for your missions. Her stealth was spectacular, and she never questioned orders; and like this, you could shield her from some of the things you had the misfortune of living through.
Departing the ballroom you both weave down multiple stony hallways, and you keep watch for each other as you abandon the million pounds of fabric you layered on a few hours ago. Stuffing them in some closet, you’re now left in a long-sleeved black tunic and trousers.
When Dahlia walks out after getting changed you see her head for a window. Before she can jump, you grab her forearm and she turns to you with a raised brow.
“Don’t take any unnecessary risks, if you hear a whisper of something gone wrong, you run for the field and leave with Eva.”
“Yes, we’ve discussed this already.”
“Promise me.”
“What?” The confusion in her voice was warranted, no one in the league cared much for promises, nonetheless their teammates.
People died all the time in the field, nothing changed that. But you never wanted anyone to die; you just weren’t given the choice to decide otherwise. Usually, you just let the missions play as they came, casualties were always a constant variable. Even so, with Dahlia, there was a version of yourself you saw in her. A version that hadn’t been lost to the cruelness of the League, a version that still had the innocence to hope. You wanted to spare her as much as you could. So, you stared at her, with all the gravity you could muster to compel her to promise. If this went to hell, she had to leave.
“O-Okay, I promise.”
You let go of her arm and nod toward the window. She stares at you for a confusing moment before disappearing into her duty. You exhale in relief, feeling like a million pounds have been lifted from your shoulders. This was going to be a thousand times more manageable without having to worry about Eva and Dahlia in the process.
Your steps are silent in the hallway, the celebration echoes behind you with the clinking of glasses and fake laughs. Memories of a past life are still carved into these walls and although you recognize all the paintings of myths you’d read about, none of them recognized you. While walking past a mirror you indulge in the reflection. The realization drowns you when you see that you were no longer the girl with a nose in her book, but a girl who could wipe out armies by sunrise.
•───────•°•♕•°•───────•
After sneaking through countless hallways and taking millions of turns, you finally manage to make it to the wing of the castle where the royal quarters lie. One of the perks of being a ladies’ maid for the better part of a decade was learning all the shortcuts and hidden passageways of the castle. If you had counted correctly, it was half past ten, allowing you more than enough time to warn Damian and get out of the castle before anyone can find you.
Approaching the dark oak door, you quietly play with the lock until it gives in and turns. You pause for a moment, listening to see if the guards were on their way back. It was commonly known that at half past, the troops would swap for the night shift; and Dahlia had made sure that you would be granted a ten-minute window to enter without bringing attention to what may be happening behind the door.
When you’re satisfied that no one is in the vicinity you push open the door. Closing it as soon as you enter, your hand dances over the handle to avoid making more noise than necessary. You had to be quick about this because the chances of the young prince calling for help or severing your head from your neck at the jump of the intrusion are scarily high.
Your footsteps are as light as a feather when you rush past the entrance wing of the room. It’s disturbingly silent, these were the times when it was frustrating that Damian trained in the League. He also mastered the ways of an assassin, and it became that much harder to get away with this. Rounding the corner to where his bed lies, you see a lump under the covers.
Against your better judgement, you huff out a breath of air. Of course, it would be just your luck that he would already be asleep.
When you finally round on the bed and rip off the covers, your veins turn to ice.
There were only two pillows where a body should have been.
He isn’t here.
Panic starts creeping into the scars that never quite healed correctly.
They know.
They knew there was going to be an attempt tonight.
They knew that someone was going to come for the prince.
You had to get out of here. And fast.
Unfortunately, while the room was spinning with your shock, you didn’t hear the door open and close behind you. Lost in your thoughts, you stayed staring at the bed trying to plan out what to do next when you hear your name.
And in that brief instant of weakness, your body betrays you, reacting before you can stop yourself.
When your head whips around eyes wide in dread, leaning against the wall next to the dresser stands the man who has haunted all of your dreams since you were thirteen years old.
Your eyes shut in resignation. It was a gamble, a large one, that you would be able to get away with holding a conversation without him recognizing you.
His gaze is piercing right through all the walls you built up. You can practically see the war behind each of his eyes while he tries to debate what to do next.
“Where’s Damian?” You ask him, getting directly to the point, there wasn’t exactly time to spare.
“He’s not here.”
“Yeah I picked up on that.” this used to irk you when you were younger, he had an annoying habit of answering with the obvious. “Where is he?”
“I really hoped it wasn’t going to be you.” He admits, completely ignoring your question.
“Tim I don’t have time for this. I have to warn him.”
“Well then, make time.” The answer comes instantly.
Your breath comes out quick and shallow, Damian’s pillow still in your hand. The intensity of his gaze is becoming too heavy to hold but too intense to break. There were so many years between you, so much left unsaid, so many things done wrong, and neither of you know what to do with it.
So, you stand here. Seconds dragging on as you take each other in, memorizing his face with both of you unmasked in the open. He had matured since you last saw him. The lines on his face hardened and his hair had grown out into his eyes. His shoulders were broader and he had more muscle on his frame.
Something in you cracks when you notice these small changes. When you see someone every day, you don’t notice these things, you don’t notice the miniscule changes in their appearance. This is how you know it’s been too long, when the length of his hair and the muscles on his biceps start looking different.
“He’s safe,” is the only reassurance he offers. “Word got out some time after dawn that there was movement at the docks. We suspected it was going to be an attempt on Damian and by the looks of it, we were right.”
A beat passes.
“It’s not what you think.”
His eyes soften, a melancholic glimmer reflecting on his water line. “Isn’t it?”
Looking around the room, exasperation starts tensing in your bones. “Yes, there was an attempt on Damian, and yes I am involved, but I am not here to take him. I came to warn him.”
You had never begged in your life before, not on the nights you were lonely and wanting nothing but a mother’s love, not in the moment when you begrudgingly took a life for the first time, not even in the field when you wanted nothing more than to be Tim’s. But here in this room, your eyes are wide and your voice is pleading that he’ll believe you.
If this goes to hell, you won’t live to see the summer. If you’re found out, you’ll never get to tell him that you waited for him.
He holds your gaze a while longer before sighing and turning to look at another wall. His fingers go to pinch the bridge of his nose and a screw in you finally loosens, allowing you to drop your shoulders. You hadn’t realized it, but you were white knuckling the goose feather pillow.
After throwing it back on the bed, you turn back and take him in. He’s still in most of the gala attire he was in earlier. He had discarded the suit jacket and mask but still wore the pale tunic and navy trousers.
“How far in the act did I get until you knew it was me?”
“I’ve known you since we were eleven years old.” His head turns back to your direction, and his eyes are squinting in disbelief. There’s a level of hurt you can’t quite find the source of reeking off him. “Did you really think a mask and a fake name was going to stop me from recognizing you?”
It was quiet for a moment. The gravity of the confession weighing down the room and just in this crevice of the castle, nothing else mattered, it was just you and Tim. The dancing and music from a few wings over faded as your chest rose and fell with his admission.
Then right when you’re about to part your lips, his voice comes out quiet. “It was your bracelet.”
“What?” The question comes out with a mix of breathlessness and bewilderment.
“Your bracelet is what gave you away.” He nods to your wrist. “I had my suspicions from the moment you walked into the Gala, but when your glove got caught on Rayner’s jacket, I saw your bracelet and I knew.”
You wanted to cry. This whole mission went to shit because you were too sentimental to take off the damn bracelet.
“You recognized the charm?” After 4 years you imagined he would’ve forgotten what it looked like.
“No, I recognized the chain.”
“The chain?” Confusion is seeping into your voice. “How?”
He merely raises an eyebrow at you. “What do you mean how? I bought it for you. Your mother gave you the charm for your sixteenth birthday and you didn’t have anything to wear it on, so I got you the chain.”
“That’s not true, my father gifted it to me for my seventeenth.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and a bit embarrassed. He couldn’t believe that you hadn’t seen each other in almost half a decade and now that you finally meet again, you were arguing with him about a fucking bracelet.
“You wouldn’t have accepted it if you knew it was from me.” His voice is earnest in a way you hadn’t heard in a long time. “The spring before I turned seventeen and left with my father for about a month, I was at a market and I saw the chain. I picked it out for you because when the sunlight reflects off it at noon, it shines in the same way your eyes do when you would talk to me about a book” You choke on whatever words you were planning to say, but it doesn’t matter because he continues after a shaky breath.
“When I came back, I knew you would not take it if it was from me. So, I gave it to your father to gift you.”
“Why?” Your voice barely audible when you ask.
“I wanted you to have it, it didn’t matter who it came from.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
Tears threaten to fall when you see the familiar wrinkle between his brows for the third time. The very wrinkle that you used to smooth out with the pad of your thumb.
“Why do all that Tim? Why go through all the trouble?”
“You can’t possibly be asking me that?” The question sounds oddly similar to a plea. His voice is desperate enough to melt whatever plaster was holding you together. “You can’t not know.”
You close your eyes and start shaking your head. He can’t be doing this, not right now, not with everything at stake tonight.
“I love you.” He doesn’t hesitate with his confession. He states it like a fact, like it’s logical. He confesses it with a simplicity that undermines the complexity of what you two were.
“Don’t.” Tears have begun falling now, guilt bringing heat to your cheeks.
“It’s the truth.”
“And it’s not enough.”
The bubble of hope encapsulating you two pops. This life that you both desperately wanted wasn’t possible. You knew that long before you left on that starless night all those years ago. You were a ladies’ maid and he was prince. It was a nice dream, but it wasn’t feasible.
“You know more than me, that this,” your index finger moves back and forth pointing between the both of you. “Was never going to come to fruition. Not in the way we wanted. It was nice while it lasted, but it was never going to work.”
His eyes squint and you can hear the sound of a heart breaking. The thing is, you’re not sure whose it was.
“What happened to you?”
You don’t miss the way his face crumples with your response. You never did tell him that you loved him back. It hurt too much to admit. To give him a part of your soul that he can’t hold but a part you would never get back.
The worst thing is that you knew he meant it. Timothy Drake never said something he didn’t mean. Everything about him was calculated and assessed for risks. So, if he told you he loved you, then he was too far gone to consider otherwise.
“I grew up Tim, that’s what happened.”
“Bullshit.” He spits out, and it shocks you momentarily. You’d seen almost every version of him there was, but this, this anger. This is something you’d never witnessed “I grew up too, but I didn’t become that.” He motions to you with his left hand.
“And what is that exactly?” You take a step closer to him, arms crossed, defensiveness building in your posture.
“That is a character you’ve convinced yourself you can play, and you’re in way over your head.”
“A character? Really?” You scoff at him. “It’s called survival Tim. I don’t expect you to be familiar with your life being dwindled down to such a simple objective, but some of us have. Some of us have to do what we can to get by.
“Survival? That’s what you want to call this?” It’s his turn to scoff and take a step closer. “You’re an assassin. You left the castle- you left me,” you try to block the way his words sound like they’re being tortured out of him, “to become a version of yourself I don’t think even you recognize anymore.”
“You think you know me so well, don’t you?” Words are spilling out like venom on your tongue and you’re not sure when it happened. When the longing turned to anger, when it turned into everything you never hashed out- everything you wanted to tell him all those years ago.
“I know you better than you think I do.”
“Oh of course,” you’ve resulted to mocking now, it was a low blow, but you’ve lost your ability to spare his feelings. “How could I forget that the insufferably intelligent Timothy Drake knows all.”
All bite seemingly dies on his tongue. His lips thin as you watch them press into each other and you can see the way his cheeks hollow out when he bites them.
“I-” he stutters for a second, while attempting to figure out how he wanted to word whatever he was going to say next. “I don’t know everything.”
You scoff and take a peek out the window, fireworks are lighting up the sky in celebration of the engagement. There’s a kaleidoscope of colors flickering around the night and into the room. When you turn back to look at Tim there’s a hue of green that lights up the left side of his face, highlighting the blue of his eyes.
“I highly doubt that.” Your voice comes out softer than you intended too.
“Well, I don’t know why you left for starters.”
Those words landed dangerously close to center of your chest. Your breath hitches and his gaze hasn’t wavered from switching between your eyes. He’s scanning, searching for anything that might give you away, anything that might reveal your doubt in the cause you fight for.
The silence in the room is deafening. It’s just you and him, just the push and pull of two souls who knew nothing except the fact that they were forever tied to the other.
“I went to the field that night.” His voice is frighteningly vulnerable. “Against all protests from my father, I went to search for any trace you might’ve left behind- any warning that you might be in trouble.”
He pauses and starts digging into the pocket of his trousers. What he pulls out robs you of your breath for what feels like the millionth time this evening.
A periwinkle ribbon.
The very ribbon that you used to tie in your hair every day.
The same ribbon he used to tug on to get your attention in class.
Your eyes are practically burning a whole into it while he fidgets with it in his hands. The silk catching on some cuts littering his fingertips.
“You kept it?”
There’s a solemn expression in his face. You’re not sure when it happens but there’s no room between you anymore. He’s directly in front of you and with each breath he takes you can smell a faint hint of the champagne he was nursing earlier.
“It was all I had left of you.”
Not being able to hold his gaze any longer, you close your eyes in a sad attempt to stop the tears from making a river down your cheeks. With the hesitancy that some would use to approach a rabid animal, he drops his forehead to yours. His presence is overwhelming, it’s second nature the way your body responds to him, even after all this time. The way he feels, the way he smells, the warmth of his touch, it was all too familiar.
“Why did you leave?”
His voice is hardly audible over the boom of the fireworks, but you can read in between the lines, hear what he’s too afraid to ask. Why did you leave me?
“I had nothing left for me here.” You take a shaky breath. “I had no parents, no money, no experience, no where to stay.”
The weight of his forehead feels heavier now and if your eyes were open, you’re sure you would see his squeeze tighter before he croaks. “You had me.”
You pull back and meet his eyes intently. “And how would you have me Timothy Drake? In the same way you used to, halfway? In the midst of the night as a secret?”
He’s silent and you can’t claim that you’re surprised. This is it- this is what you wanted to tell him for years. That it killed you to be this with him, to be something but not everything. To be almost enough. You were his before you had a say, and the fates mocked you for it. Laughing at you in the field every night when you believed that you had all the time in the world.
Every brick of every wall is screaming at you to stop, to take it back, but you don’t know if you’ll have the opportunity again. So, before you can talk yourself out of it, you confess.
“I loved you Tim, I love you more than you will ever know.” You don’t bother shielding the tears anymore, you’re both crying so there’s no shame in it. “And I’m sorry that this is the first time you hear it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you back then. I’m sorry that I left- believe me, it was not my first choice of a solution.”
“Then stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?” The question is practically ripped from him, anguished in a way you had never seen before.
“I can’t cross them Tim. Even if I wanted too, they gave me something when I had nothing. It would be wrong; it would be unfair.” It was as simple as that. “I am loyal to the Al Ghul’s, it is my land of birth. I will not repay their kindness with betrayal.”
“Kindness?” His eyes look as if they will bug out of his head. “You call this,” His arms flail in front of him, motioning to you and the air in the room that seems oddly thin now. “Kindness? That’s not kindness, that’s assassination.”
The walls that crumbled moments ago were now starting to rebuild. He can sense it too, he sees the way your shoulders tense again. “Choose your next words very carefully my prince, you may be royalty, but you will not dishonor me with your exasperation.”
He sighs, his head tilting back toward the ceiling. It was never supposed to be like this; it was never supposed to be this complicated.
He takes a deep breath before conceding. “Okay,” his eyes meet yours again and your flickering vexation with him seems to finally die out. “I apologize.”
“If you cannot stay then, take this” His right hand slides off the ring on his middle finger and drops it into your palm before you can realize which one it was. His hand cups yours forcing your fingers to close around it while the other one cups your cheek. “Take it as a reminder that I am always yours. Take it as a promise that when this is all over- when it is all figured out, I will have you completely. I will have you openly as my best friend, as my princess, and as the love of my life.”
When you look down into your palm you see the cursive W engraved in black on silver and your jaw drops. This is their ring, the royal family’s signet ring. There’s only one that exists for each member, and one for their significant others.
“Tim I- I can’t-”
“Please.” He begs. “Please don’t deny me, not now.”
His hand cups your cheek and you catch yourself leaning into it. His thumb begins delicately caressing the side of your face, almost as if you’re fragile. It’s been so long since someone treated you like that, as something that could break instead of something to break.
“Okay.” Relenting to his pleas, you slide the signet ring onto your thumb- it being the only one it would fit on.
His eyes flicker to your thumb momentarily, his pupils dilating at the fact that his ring is on your finger.
“I love you.” He whispers again, gaze shifting back to yours. He’s leaning in so that his nose brushes yours.
You both pause at the proximity. Allowing yourselves this small flicker of peace, just breathing each other in. His breath warms your cheek, and you feel the resistance he’s trying to exert.
Doing you both a favor, you lean in.
His lips slide against yours and for once, the world made sense. It made, every vice, every misfortune, every scar worth it. Your hands slide up into his hair and his make a home at your hips, thumbs ghosting your skin in mindless circles. It was gentle at first, then it turns hungry.
His teeth bite down on your lower lip, and his hands move to your back holding you impossibly close to him. Your body flushes against his and one of your arms moves down from its place in his hair to grip his shoulder.
The explosion in your heart when his lips met yours put every firework to shame. Timothy Drake lit up the sky in a way nothing in this universe could replicate.
Pulling back, both of you catch your breath. His forehead falls against yours again only for a split second. Then he’s littering your temple, cheek, and neck with kisses. Each kiss was a ghost of heat against your skin. Each one a promise that he was yours, that he would wait.
Your chest rises and falls complimented by a family of butterflies breaking out of their cocoons in your stomach. You’re about to say something, maybe another declaration, maybe a promise- you weren’t sure, when footsteps begin thundering down the hall.
Your heads whip to the direction of the door.
The guards are back.
For a second, his arms grip you tighter, holding you closer to him. Tim knows he has to let you go, that you can’t stay, that it’s selfish of him to hope. So, after that brief second of weakness, he lets you go.
He lets you go because he knows you’ll come back.
“How are you planning on getting out of here?” He whispers.
Wordlessly, you walk over to Damian’s wardrobe. Rifling through the countless coats made of exotic fabric, under a stack of boots that don’t quite fit him yet, you find a rope. It was a shot in the dark that he’d have it, you never liked leaving things to chance, but when you look back at Tim there’s a small smirk on your face.
“Old habits die hard.” You inform him while holding up the rope.
“I’ll hold the other end”
He decides for both of you. He looks out the window to make sure that no one is patrolling this side of the castle, and luck decides to be kind tonight.
He tosses the old rope over the window, and you climb out. Perched on the windowsill with one leg in and one leg out, you take one last look at your prince. Here in the moonlight, with colors of the rainbow decorating his face from fireworks, he’d never looked so beautiful.
Midnight was forever dedicated to both of you.
He shifts closer and with his free hand, grabs yours one more time. His fingers caressing the ring on your thumb.
“I love you” he sounds so innocent, so genuine that you crack a smile.
“I love you too.”
And with one last fleeting kiss lighting you from the inside out, you disappear down the castle wall. His eyes never leave you while you escape on a night not so different as the first time.
When you drop down the side of the castle with grass under your boots, your hands burning from the friction of the rope, you realize you survived a night you were never meant too. There is at least that much to be grateful for.
When your feet carry you into the field where you fell in love, you realize you never really fell out of it, despite what your brain tried to convince itself. Your heart still belonged to the awkward prince who was too skilled at alchemy. And now, it always would. Because no army or war could stop Timothy Drake from fulfilling a promise.
Especially if that promise meant coming back to you.
•───────•°•♕•°•───────•
A/N:So that was a lot omg, ik it’s kind of a bittersweet ending BUT DON’T LOSE HOPE, if this does well and you guys want it, I will post the happy ending I had in mind for these two so lmk if y’all want that muahahha
this absolutely beautiful art is by the amazing @ameirin ♥♥♥ I will never get sick of commissioning you, Mei!!! Do you see how she drew Zoro extra pretty for me? I cry whenever I see this. ♥
Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s. Until the man promised to her began to look at you instead. The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly, his eyes began to wander... to you.
Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Bridgerton-Inspired, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage (not between rafmc), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender romance, Mutual Pining, Stolen Glances, Eventual Smut (cw will be updated with each ch)
Word count: 7.8k
Author's note: This story began with one idea: what if Rafayel existed in a Regency world of whispered courtships, candlelit ballrooms, and dangerously improper strolls through the gardens? And then… well, then it became everything. The fan fluttered. The heart raced. The gloves came off. Literally.
If you love yearning, poetry, burning touches behind closed doors, and the kind of romance that leaves you sighing into your teacup—then I hope you enjoy every soft, scandalous step of this journey. Prepare for aching glances, stolen kisses, and perhaps a few gasps behind a fan. Because this is the Season, after all.
With all our hearts,
—Lex and Elle (co author: @astarry-moon)
Maids hurry between the corridors, their arms full of ivory silk and pearl-dotted gloves and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing a debate rises in pitch, something to do with whether the new French ribbon flatters Eleanora’s gown or ruins it entirely. From the drawing room your mother’s voice carries up the stairs in slow, theatrical fragments, a sigh and a name and another sigh, as though managing two debutantes has already cost her five years of her life and the Season has only this morning begun.
You sit by the window with your knees tucked sideways on the cushion, watching the grey spring sky and pretending the chaos behind you isn’t there. Your reflection looks back at you, faint against the glass. Pale, thoughtful, expectant in a way you cannot quite explain to yourself.
“Would it kill you to look excited?”
You do not turn at the voice. Eleanora drifts into the edge of the window’s reflection, every curl in place, every line of her pale rose gown already settled and smoothed days ago. Her confidence has never been the loud kind. It is something inherited, worn the way other women wear a coat in cold weather: simply, and without thought.
“I am excited.” Your chin stays in your palm; you do not turn from the window. “I am vibrating with anticipation, in fact. Can’t you tell?”
Her laugh is soft and quick, and the cushion sinks gently as she lowers herself beside you. “Mother is convinced I shall have a proper proposal by the second ball.”
“That is rather optimistic of her.” You hadn’t meant to say it quite so flatly, but the words leave you that way all the same.
“She is not wrong.” Eleanora’s fingers tug at a thread on her sleeve, more for something to do than because the thread is loose. “There is already talk of it. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball, and he, well...” She give you a sidelong glance, a small tilt of her brow. “You know how long the arrangement has been in place.”
Ah, him.
The name goes through you like a draft from a door you hadn’t realized was open. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt, promised to your sister since the two of them were small enough to need help into their chairs at the dinner table, in one of those quiet family agreements made over wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and signatures and fortunes you have never been shown. You have never met him. You have never even seen him. You have only ever heard of him, year after year, the way one hears of distant places one will likely never visit.
He rarely comes to town, they say. He has been abroad for years. He is peculiar, brilliant but peculiar, and collects old paintings and refuses invitations and has shown no interest in courtship at all, except for the one chosen for him before he was old enough to object: your sister’s.
The thought slips out of you before you can soften it. “I wonder if he is dreadfully boring.”
Eleanora’s laugh is half a snort, half a sigh, and her shoulders give a small, amused shake. “He is a Duke, darling. I am hardly expected to love him. Only to keep myself from embarrassment over the soup.”
You turn toward her then, resting the side of your face against the window frame, and look at her the way you sometimes do when you forget to arrange your own expression.
“Do you mind it?” You hear how soft your voice has gone, and you do not try to correct it. “That you have never met him. That it has all been arranged.”
For a moment her composure holds. Then it slips, very quietly, only at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes.
“I mind being married off like a trinket.” Her gaze drifts down to the gloves still folded in her lap. “And I mind not having a choice. But choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”
After a delicate pause she straightens in her seat, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, the smile she finds for you almost bright, and reserved only for you. “You shall have more freedom, you know. You are not promised to anyone.”
No, you are not. Not the eldest and not the heir-maker, only the afterthought in pearls. And yet freedom feels a fragile thing inside this house, wrapped as it is in expectation and powdered into rouge and fastened at the back by hands that are not your own.
A knock at the door interrupts the quiet between you, and the door creaks open on a maid mid-curtsy.
“The carriage is ready, Misses. Madam says the ball waits for no Lady.”
Eleanora rises in one practiced sweep, all silk and perfect posture. You follow more slowly, smoothing your skirt against your palms because your palms need something to do. In the mirror by the door, your rouge sits too pink against your cheeks, and the smile you offer the girl in the glass arrives a half-beat late, as though she had to be reminded of it.
Somewhere in the city, a man you have never met is also dressing for the evening. You step out into the corridor, and the carriage is waiting in the drive, and your gloves are too tight at the wrists.
And with that, the Season has begun.
—
The ballroom glitters like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloom overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors; laughter curls around the violins, and perfumed fans flutter like butterfly wings in time with the slow rise of the orchestra. It is the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London has come to play its part.
Your mother insisted on white for your debut: soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves cut just off the shoulder. You feel like a porcelain doll being moved across a chessboard, and you keep your shoulders very still so the feeling does not show on your face.
Eleanora is art. One glance at her, and the suitors flock like moths to a flame; her rose-colored gown shimmers with every turn she takes, her laughter falls into all the right places, and she dances as though she had been born to do it, which she likely was. You do not particularly mind. You sip your champagne near the edge of the floor, offering a polite nod to a young gentleman who has only just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz.
“She is rather enchanting, your sister.”
You turn. A tall, freckled young man stands beside you, his cheeks faintly flushed with wine, his smile a little crooked at the corners. “Though I confess I find myself rather more curious about the other debutante at her side.”
Your brows lift. “Curious, My Lord? Or drunk?”
His laugh comes easy, with no offence taken at all. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”
You hesitate only a moment before placing your hand in his. The music rises, and so do you. You dance twice, once with the freckled gentleman (Lord Daniel something, you think), and again with a kind-eyed Viscount who fumbles through his small talk but smiles handsomely when you turn one of his fumbles into wit. You laugh. You curtsy. You do everything you are meant to do.
It is impossible, however, to ignore how the room revolves around your sister. She has not left the floor since the first chord struck. A new partner with every song, an admiring audience wherever she pauses. You catch glimpses of her between the turns of your own, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks faintly flushed, her posture as perfect now as it was on the carriage cushion hours ago.
And then, somewhere just behind your shoulder, an intrigued whisper.
“Did you see? The Duke of Ravencourt is here.”
The name slips between fans like a small kept secret.
“I thought he would not attend.”
“He never does. But this Season, well, everyone knows why.”
“He is to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”
“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”
“And is it true he…”
You turn too quickly, a little louder in your own bones than you would like, looking for the voice and the source of it. But all you find are swirling gowns and smiling mouths and the soft, indifferent glitter of the chandeliers. No sign of him. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter beneath the silk of your bodice, a small, uneven kick you cannot quite explain to yourself. You have heard the name all your life, and yet he is here, somewhere, breathing the same air as you, and somehow that is a stranger thought than you would have guessed.
Eleanora laughs again, that musical sound carrying across the dance floor as she turns in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you do not recognise. Perhaps it is him. Perhaps not. You watch, you listen, but Rafayel Vale, the Duke of Ravencourt, remains as elusive as his reputation, still nothing more than a name and a whisper.
Another glass of champagne is pressed gently into your hand, your third of the evening, perhaps your fourth. The effervescence prickles pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness fresh but not quite cool enough to settle the flush that has climbed into your cheeks after so many turns about the floor. You have danced with no fewer than six gentlemen by now, each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.
“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh.”
“Your sister is fortunate to have you at her side.”
“Might I call on you this upcoming week?”
You smile. You curtsy. You return civility for civility. But your mind has long since drifted elsewhere, pulled by curiosity, by the soft, persistent weight of a name that keeps brushing past your ear like a breeze you cannot quite catch. Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one points him out. No introductions, no dramatic arrival, no parting of the crowd. You are beginning to suspect he has not come at all, despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room earlier like a pebble dropped into still water.
You are about to take your leave from the floor when you catch the flicker of it. A subtle change in the air. The orchestra has not stopped, nor have the conversations, and yet for a single breath the room itself seems to hush, the way a forest goes still when a hawk passes overhead. You turn, and there, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stands a man dressed in midnight black.
No one announces him. He does not need announcement. He stands with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveys the ballroom below with an expression that does not demand attention so much as quietly require it. He is beautiful in the way storms are beautiful: elegant, distant. Dangerous. His hair is of a beautiful, striking purple and long enough that the soft waves brush the collar of his coat. And his eyes, even from across the distance, are sharp and watchful, mesmerizing as two pools of blue and pink, his jaw cutting cleanly beneath the candlelight.
You do not need to ask who he is. You already know, deep below your ribs, where things that you just know settle.
Just behind your shoulder, someone leans toward someone else. “Ah, there he is. The Duke.” Only confirming what your pulse has already done.
He descends the stairs unhurriedly, greeting no one, walking with the easy disinterest of a man who is not in the habit of trying to impress, and yet every head in the room turns toward him as he moves. Even Eleanora’s. You watch her gaze snap upward, watch the moment his eyes find hers, only for a breath, only long enough to acknowledge what is already understood between two families. Then, with an unflinching grace, he crosses the ballroom and offers your sister a bow.
“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and refined and controlled, like water flowing over stones.
Your sister curtsies, perfect as ever. “Your Grace.”
And for the first time in your life, you are standing only a few feet away from the man who has, without ever having known your face, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. So that is him, at last. The man whose name has been stitched into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread, the Duke your mother speaks of in hushed and reverent tones, the one your sister was destined for before she had even learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.
You do not linger on the sight of them. You watch only long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand, and to watch him take it with a bow that is too shallow to be entirely respectful, and yet too quietly attentive to be entirely proper, which is interesting, you think, but it is not your concern. You turn away.
“Miss Everleigh.”
You face the gentleman waiting beside you with a smile sharpened just enough to cut through the soft fog of champagne. “Lord Renswick.” A small dip into a curtsy. “Have you finally decided to brave the dance floor?”
His grin is sheepish at the corners. “It is hardly bravery, when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”
You tilt your head, amused. “Flattery, My Lord? We have not even danced yet.”
“I am hoping to improve your opinion of me before I embarrass myself entirely.” He offers his arm, his brow lifting in hopeful invitation. “Shall we?”
You allow him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble. You dance, and you laugh, and when he stumbles, you tease him gently for it. Another gentleman approaches you before the music fades, and then another, and the evening passes in a soft haze of pleasantries and compliments, of silk gloves and careful steps and smiles that never quite reach your eyes.
You are being seen, properly seen, not merely as Eleanora’s sister but as yourself. And yet somewhere beneath the swirl of figures and the murmured invitations, you keep catching the soft, persistent sound of his name.
“The Duke has not danced with anyone else as much as he did with her.”
“He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with Miss Everleigh.”
“They are to be married before summer, I hear.”
You do not seek him out, not deliberately. But you notice all the same, how he does not hover near the punch and does not court attention, how he simply exists, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room. Eleanora has his company almost exclusively; they speak often, their heads bent slightly toward one another, and she laughs in that polished way she perfected during her finishing school years. You catch him smile only once, perhaps twice, or perhaps you imagine it. He offers his hand to two other ladies for a dance, both times out of a clear and impersonal courtsy, and both ladies look slightly dazed when he returns them to their chaperones.
By the time the final waltz begins, you have found your way back near the windows again. A gentle breeze drifts through the open panes; the sky outside is deep and velvet blue, dotted with the soft promise of rain. You press your fingertips to the glass for the cool of it, and behind you the ballroom glitters on. Your sister is still dancing with him.
So that is the man who will be her husband, you think again, and you do not envy her, not truly. He is distant, unreadable, a mystery, but not a mystery that is yours to solve. You are only a little curious, after so many years of hearing his name in whispers, and curiosity is a small enough thing that you can put it down again whenever you like.
The ride home is quiet at first. Outside the carriage window, London twinkles beneath the night sky, the gas lamps glowing like stars caught in glass, and the wheels clatter softly over the cobblestones in the rhythmic lull that always comes after a long evening of dancing. Inside, you sit across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand more from habit than from any continuing need of it.
Your mother sighs for the fifth time in as many minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage is hardly warm.
“Well, I should say that was a most successful beginning to the Season.” Her voice carries all the breathless theatre it always does after an evening she considers a triumph. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” her gaze moves to you, soft with the kind of approval she reserves for unexpected moments, “you were charming. I heard Lord Pelham himself compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love. Not merely your appearance. A rare thing, that.”
You offer a faint smile. “How generous of him.”
Eleanora’s quiet chuckle is half-lit by the carriage lantern, and there is a strange softness in her expression, a contentment you do not often see outside the privacy of moments like these.
Your mother lifts her fan again. “Six dances. Four requests for calling hours. And, oh, did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”
“I did.” Eleanora’s voice is low and amused. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”
Your mother’s fan stops mid-wave, her expression shifting into something very nearly reverent. “The Duke. Good heavens. I still cannot quite believe he came. I had truly thought we should have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”
“He was…” Eleanora pauses, her gaze drifting briefly to the window, the lamplight catching faintly in her eyes. “Unexpected. Not at all what I had imagined.”
You look at her then, with quiet intrigue. “What did you imagine?”
She tilts her head, the consideration moving slowly across her face. “Someone older, perhaps. Someone colder. Less sharp than he is. He does not speak much, but when he does, it is never empty.”
You hum. “And?”
Her smile is small and knowing. “He pays attention to everything around him.”
You raise a brow. “Even you?”
A shrug, the smallest lift of her shoulder beneath the silk. “Especially me.”
Your mother gives a delicate gasp of delight and resumes her fanning with renewed vigour. “Well, then it is settled. We shall expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps even sooner, given how much time he spent at your side this evening.”
“I do not think he is the sort of man to follow expected schedules.” Eleanora’s gaze does not leave the window.
You do not say it aloud, but you find yourself agreeing with her. You lean your head against the inside of the carriage wall, watching the lantern light flicker softly over your gloves.
The Season has begun. Your sister’s future, the one stitched in gold and promise, is unfolding in front of all of you. And somewhere in the shadows of it, a man made of whispers has finally stepped into the light.
—
The garden smells of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spills over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the rim of your teacup as you sit beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hum lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirs the hem of your skirt and carries with it the faintest, fading echo of music from last night’s ball, as though the violins have not quite let you go.
You swirl honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and your mother seated nearby. They are reading from The Society Pages, their lips twitching with every name mentioned.
“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta. That will certainly be remarked upon." Your mother’s nose lifts in delicate disapproval.
“And here, oh, listen. ‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”
“They flatter.” Eleanora’s eyes gleam over the rim of her teacup, despite the lightness in her voice.
You do not comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze.
The first caller arrives before noon. The butler appears at the edge of the garden with the perfect composure his post demands. “Miss Everleigh. Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”
You rise, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offer a pleasant smile as the young Lord is shown through the open doors and into the dappled green of the garden.
He bows. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”
You do not roll your eyes, though it is a near thing. “Good morning, My Lord. How kind of you to visit.”
He speaks of the ball, of your dancing, of how he had hoped to see you again. You answer with grace, with interest even, but something inside you stays carefully unmoved. He is not unpleasant. None of them are. They simply lack a thing you cannot quite name and have not yet decided whether to name at all.
A second gentleman comes not long after. A third arrives in the late afternoon with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller is welcomed; each is given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet, with every charming smile and gloved hand pressed briefly to yours, you find your thoughts drifting elsewhere, slipping out of your own garden and toward a pair of eyes that have not yet sought you out, and that you have not quite admitted to yourself you are waiting for.
By the time the sun begins to lower, streaking the garden in amber, the butler reappears once more at the edge of the lawn. You glance up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”
He clears his throat gently and bows. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”
You nod, not disappointed, not expectant, only thoughtful. “Thank you.”
You return to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora has set aside her book and is absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers, slow as a clock that has forgotten the hour.
“He has not called.” Her voice is soft and unbitter.
You look up. “The Duke?”
A small nod. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem. But he did say he would be in town this week.”
You sip your tea. “He does not seem the type to rush.”
“No. He is not.” Her tone holds no bitterness, only plain observation. Eleanora has never been a girl who chased affection. She has always expected it to arrive on its own terms, in its own time, and she has rarely been wrong.
You glance toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustles the hedges, but no footsteps come. Still, it is early. Much too early to assume anything.
By evening the callers are gone, your mother is content, and your sister is thoughtful in that quiet way of hers. You are content to watch and to listen and to wait for the Season to unfold as it always does, slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke is to be part of your sister’s story, he will arrive in time. And if he does not, well, that, too, would be telling.
—
The gown is periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You say nothing as your maid fastens it, only watching your reflection in the mirror with a mild detachment while she smooths the folds. Eleanora has gone through three dresses before settling on one.
“Do you think he will be there tonight?” Eleanora’s voice is carefully even, her gaze fixed on the curls your mother is arranging at the crown of her head.
You know who she means. “I imagine so. It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”
It is the third time she has asked this week. He has not called once. Not even a letter. After all the glances and the evening spent in her company, the conversations near the card tables, the dance the rest of the room could not stop noticing, there has been nothing. Even the Ton has begun to murmur about it. The papers have commented, their tone careful but curious.
Your mother is trying to stay composed, and almost succeeding. “He is a Duke, darling. He is dreadfully busy, I am sure of it. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business. Men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlours.”
But it is not poetry Eleanora wants. It is certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, has offered her none.
Lady Warwick’s ballroom is suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd is lively, the musicians sharp and practised, and by the time you arrive, the dancing has already begun.
You make your greetings, you smile when expected, you allow a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laugh once, genuinely this time. Eleanora remains composed beside you, her gown elegant, her posture perfect. But you know her well enough to read the small flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?
You see him the moment he steps into the room. He is dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He does not linger at the entrance and does not pause for greetings. He moves straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence, and then there he is, standing in front of your sister.
“Miss Everleigh.” His bow goes deeper than the one he offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”
Your sister blinks once, the surprise quickly tucked away. “Your Grace.”
He reaches into his coat. From his gloved hand, he draws a small, velvet-wrapped box and places it delicately in her palm.
“For my absence.” His voice is quiet and measured. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”
You do not look away from them, but you do not move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opens the box slowly. Inside is a brooch, silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its centre. It is not extravagant, nor loud. It is tasteful, and rare, and very beautiful.
“You needn’t have.” Her voice has gone softer.
“I did.” A small, deliberate pause. “May I claim a dance, if you have not promised it to another?”
She hesitates only a moment. “Of course, Your Grace.”
You step back as he offers his arm. She takes it. They move to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch, and you remain at the edge of the dance floor, untouched by the small drama of it, your fingers gently clasped in front of you, your thoughts still clear.
You do not watch them dance. Not because it hurts, because it does not. Not because you are jealous, because you are not. But because watching feels unnecessary. It is predictable. Rafayel Vale has returned, and he has returned to your sister’s side as he was meant to, as he has been for years, in name if not yet in affection. So you turn away, and you smile when another gentleman bows before you.
“My Lady.” His voice is smooth and warm, like polished amber. “You have been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”
You lift your eyes to the gentleman before you. He is striking, but not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke is. No, this man wears charm like a perfectly tailored coat: light brown hair elegantly curled, a golden signet ring on his right hand, a smile that curls ever so slightly at the edge as though he knows something you do not. And his title?
“Lord Wessex.” His bow is elegant. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I am told I am the more tolerable of the two.”
Your brows lift, amused. “You have quite the opinion of yourself, My Lord.”
His grin is unrepentant. “Only when it is justified. May I?”
You place your gloved hand in his.
Lord Wessex is a skilled dancer. Not just in form but in conversation. Where the others have asked the same tired questions (what are your hobbies, do you enjoy embroidery), he asks instead about the books you read, the places you wish to see, the way your eyes light up when speaking of the sea, despite the fact that you have never once seen it in person.
He keeps you laughing, and thinking, and on your toes. And when he leads you to the refreshments table, he does not hover or smother. He offers you a glass, nods warmly at your appreciation, and keeps the conversation moving like a current pulling you along beside him.
“They speak of your sister and His Grace as though the match is already sealed.” His gaze drifts toward the couple in question, his smile still in place but quieter now.
“It was arranged.” You keep your voice light. “A long time ago.”
“Arranged." He turns the word in his mouth like a pebble, considering. “Such a word leaves so little room for choice, doesn’t it?”
You glance at him. “Do you not believe in arrangements, My Lord?”
“I believe in lightning strikes.” His eyes find yours. “Not family bargains.”
You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”
His laugh is warm and unforced. “You have no idea, Miss Everleigh.”
By the end of the evening you have danced with him twice more, once by his request and once by your own quiet invitation, and both times have left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled. And while your sister ends the night with the Duke at her side, the talk of the room once more, it is not his presence that lingers on your skin as you step into the carriage. It is Lord Wessex’s voice still echoing in your ear, unhurried and certain.
Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I am standing close when it happens.
—
The sun has barely settled above the rooftops when the butler appears in the parlour, his expression neutral, his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.
“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”
Your mother nearly drops her embroidery. Your sister freezes with her teacup held in midair.
You simply blink. “Both?”
The butler inclines his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”
For a moment, no one moves. Then your mother claps her hands together as though summoned by divine will.
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely, that gown is ideal. And you, dear, yes, you will stay. It would be rude not to.”
You almost laugh. Rude, of course.
The drawing room has been polished to near-blinding shine. There are fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids have barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men are escorted in.
The Duke enters with the same quiet command he carried at the ball, dressed in a dark coat with silver cufflinks, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His bow is effortless, and his gaze settles on Eleanora with a soft nod.
“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and even. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”
Eleanora curtsies, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”
And beside him, light where Rafayel is shadow, stands Lord Wessex, smiling, charming, all pale waistcoat and sunlit presence. His gaze finds you almost immediately.
“Miss Everleigh.” His warmth is unmissable. “I confess I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”
You raise a brow. “That would have been quite the feat, My Lord, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper.”
His grin only widens. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often, in defence of my honour.”
Tea is served. The Duke sits beside Eleanora; their conversation is soft and low and careful, words about estates, about travel, about the architecture of Bath. You and Lord Wessex, on the other hand, drown in laughter and playful remarks: a small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies, a question about your favourite poet that, unlike the others, he actually listens to the answer of. He watches you speak with a kind of gentle interest that is easy to receive, and easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looks your way.
The next party is held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-coloured canopies and strings of flowers that flutter like silk ribbons in the breeze. There are games set up on the lawn, and plates of sugared strawberries, and lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walk beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels: a lilac gown for her, a pale blue for you. And they are there, of course, as they always seem to be now.
The Duke stands tall and composed in a dark grey coat, close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree, listening as she speaks, offering a quiet smile when she makes some soft remark. And across the lawn stands your suitor, Lord Wessex, lounging like he belongs in every summer painting ever made. When he catches sight of you, his expression lights up at once.
“Miss Everleigh.” He rises with one graceful movement, his voice warm and unfeigned. “You have saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”
You glance at your sister. She gives you the faintest nod. And so you do. You walk the gardens with him, speaking of travel and philosophy and music you are not strictly supposed to enjoy. He plucks a wildflower from the hedgerow and offers it to you. You laugh and tell him it clashes terribly with your gloves.
And when you pause to rest beneath the roses, you find yourself glancing across the lawn. The Duke is still there, though he has shifted, standing now a few steps behind your sister as she speaks to another couple, and his posture is not what it was. His gaze is no longer on Eleanora. It is on you. Not direct, not rude, but unmistakable in its direction. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath held between pages of a book. And then, as though realising it himself, he looks away, just as Lord Wessex turns to say something clever that pulls another laugh out of you.
The grand hall is glowing. Every window has been draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmers with perfume and warm anticipation, and music pours from the raised platform where a quartet plays its first waltz of the evening.
You have barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appears.
“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex stands handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox, his smile brighter than the chandeliers themselves. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”
You lift your chin. “You assume I would say yes, My Lord.”
His bow goes low and theatrical. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”
You let out a soft laugh and extend your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”
His expression turns triumphant. The dance is effortless. You move together as though you have done it a hundred times before; you know he will make a joke right before the turn, and that he will lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm but never improper, never forward. He is a gentleman with a wild spark.
Afterward, he offers his arm and guides you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish lordling cut in. You spend the next hour beside him, talking and sipping chilled wine and laughing once so hard that you have to hide your face behind your fan. He makes it easy. He makes you feel seen.
Across the ballroom, the Duke is at your sister's side once more. They speak in quiet tones. He escorts her to a dance, then to another, though that one is not hers but another lady's, partnered with him out of expected courtesy. His face remains unreadable, his words careful. But every time your laughter rings out, or your gown brushes past the edge of the room, his eyes find your silhouette, just for a second.
Lord Wessex offers you another dance before the night ends, and you accept without hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asks for none of you. But he does watch, just once more, as you dance away with another man, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.
—
The bell above the door gives a soft chime as you step inside. It is cooler here, and dimmer, the thick scent of paper and aged wood pressing gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves tower around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings, a world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.
You pull off one glove and tuck it beneath your arm as you wander. Most ladies prefer the modiste, the milliner, the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here, in the dust-warm hush of a bookshop, you can breathe.
You find yourself in the poetry section, of course, your bare fingertips brushing the titles, your brow slightly furrowed as you search for something half-remembered, alone with your own thoughts.
Until a soft shift of leather soles catches your ear. You turn, expecting a clerk, and freeze.
He stands not three paces from you, dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves, simpler than you have ever seen him and no less composed for it. The Duke of Ravencourt. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The absurdity of it makes your lips twitch faintly, of all the places, of all the afternoons. He regards you with that same unreadable expression of his, as though he were trying to make sense of something.
“Miss Everleigh.” His voice, when it comes, is low and measured. “This is unexpected.”
You curtsy, very slightly, regaining your composure. “Your Grace. I might say the same.”
His gaze flicks briefly to the book in your hand: Keats, you realise, only now. Then back to your face. “Do you favour poetry?”
“On quiet days. And on rainy ones.”
He nods, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”
You wait, wondering whether he will say more. He does not.
“And you, Your Grace?” There is a touch of amusement laced through your words, in spite of yourself. “Are you here for poetry, or for politics?”
His lips curve, only just. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or anything with weight to it.”
Your brow arches. “Is that so, Your Grace?”
He looks at you for a long moment, still distant, but not unkind.
“I did not expect to find you here.” His admission comes after the silence has stretched long enough to mean something. “But I am not displeased.”
Your heartbeat ticks once, then twice, soft and uneven beneath your bodice.
“Nor am I, Your Grace.” You keep your voice quiet. “But I shall let you return to your… weighty thoughts."
He inclines his head. “And you to your verse.”
You curtsy, slight but proper. He bows in return. There are no lingering glances, no breathless goodbyes, only a few pleasantries exchanged, two minds acknowledged, and a silence between them that somehow says more than the words have.
—
It is one of those warm spring afternoons when everything feels too golden to be entirely real. The garden terrace is full of soft laughter and the rustle of silk gowns; ladies fan themselves under the shade trees, while gentlemen cluster near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrive beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes for a wheel that needed adjusting.
“Smile, darling.” Your mother adjusts your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of colour in your cheeks would not hurt either.”
You smile. You nod. You adjust. Eleanora woke this morning feeling unwell, no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never permit a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair. Her instructions earlier had been gentle but firm. You will attend in her place. Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.
So now you stand in your sister’s shadow, only without her beside you to cast it. You move through conversation with practised ease. Three ladies ask after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly calls you by her name, and you correct him gently, no sting in your voice. And then you excuse yourself, drifting toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offers a moment of quiet. You are just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifts behind you.
"Miss Everleigh."
You turn. There he is, the Duke, alone. Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another Lady to dance with. He stands a respectful distance away, one hand loosely clasped behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.
“Your Grace.” You offer a curtsy, calm as you can manage. “I am surprised to see you without company.”
His lips twitch at the corner. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”
His eyes study your face, not in a way that lingers, but in a way that makes you feel slightly restless beneath the skin. “Is your sister not attending?”
You shake your head. “She is unwell, Your Grace. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” His voice is quiet, and smooth as ever, though beneath it there is something unreadable once again, something that does not quite settle.
“I hope you do not feel… obligated to entertain me in her absence, Your Grace.” You add it carefully, watching his face.
“I do not.” The reply comes quicker than you expected, not curt, only honest.
Your brows lift, amused despite yourself. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, Your Grace?”
“Curiosity, perhaps.” A small pause, and then, almost like a confession, “You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”
You blink, and a small smile finds you. “I assure you, Your Grace, I do not do it on purpose.”
“A pity.” His voice has gone quieter. “It is becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”
You do not have time to answer, because somewhere across the terrace someone is calling your name, Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the far end with that signature grin of his. You turn back to the Duke.
“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.”
He inclines his head. “Of course.”
You curtsy again. He bows. And you walk away, toward the man who wants you, and away from the one who has only just begun to wonder whether he should.
“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex offers his arm as you return to the centre of the terrace.
“It was, My Lord.” Your fingers brush the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accept.
“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”
You smile. “He was polite. Curious, perhaps. But there was no frowning.”
He clicks his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”
You laugh, soft and warm, as he guides you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hang low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walk together in companionable silence for a moment.
“You always find me easily, My Lord.” You keep your tone light.
“That is because I always look.” There is no hesitation in him at all when he says it, and that is what stills you, just a fraction, the unguarded sincerity of it.
The conversation drifts easily after that, as it always does between you. He asks about your favourite lines from the bookshop. You ask about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He makes you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.
It is easy, this thing between you. Not dull, not predictable, but certain, somehow. And when he asks you for a dance under the stars, you say yes without thinking twice. You dance in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above, his hand steady at your waist, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You are quiet tonight.” His voice is low at your ear as you turn.
“My apologies, My Lord. I had not realised.”
“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”
“No.” The answer is honest, and easily given. “Just enjoying this moment.”
His smile is small and pleased. “Then I shall consider myself fortunate.”
Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke is dancing with another Lady. He does not fumble, does not charm, does not smile too wide or step too close. He is composed, as always, fulfilling his role and bowing when required and saying the right words at the right times.
But when your laughter drifts once more across the lawn, his eyes, just for a second, turn toward the sound and linger there again.
